


hollow point smile

by distira



Category: Football RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-03
Updated: 2011-04-03
Packaged: 2017-10-21 21:24:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/230009
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/distira/pseuds/distira
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Luis Suarez's first fight in a Liverpool jersey.</p>
            </blockquote>





	hollow point smile

  
Afterwards, Luis remembers what happened in bits and pieces.

"We're not going to appeal the suspension," Kenny tells him. Luis looks at his hands, folded in his lap. He taps his thumbs together.

"Okay," he says. The English sticks in his throat.

He doesn't regret it. He'd showered after he got sent off, but it feels like there are still grass stains on his knees. He bites his lower lip.

"It's not okay," Kenny says. "You can't fight on the pitch, Luis."

"I know," Luis says. It's not the first time he's been told.

"Don't let it happen again," Kenny asks.

It would be a useless promise to make, so Luis says nothing. He picks at the loose skin on the side of his thumb. Sometimes, he thinks, there isn't another option. When the will to win is there, but not the way. His youth coaches told him he'd grow out of his feistiness, but Luis thinks that if anything, the opposite happened.

His hand is on the doorknob and he's walking out when Kenny speaks again. "At least you didn't bite him," Kenny says. Luis looks back over his shoulder and Kenny's grinning, just slightly. Luis can't help himself from smiling back, so he ducks his head back around and leaves the office.

He remembers Raul hitting the field, hard. He remembers someone in a sky blue shirt (he isn't even sure who it was, anymore, he just remembers the blue shirt and how he saw red) standing over him, gesturing for him to get up.

The Kop was whistling and screaming and Luis remembers feeling propelled by it, pushed forward until his hands were clamped vice-like around strong shoulders, pushing him back away from Raul.

"How many games?"

Stevie's voice is even harder than usual to understand over the phone. It takes Luis a minute to process and formulate a reply. "Three," he says. The 'r' rolls a little bit.

Stevie exhales, and the sound crackles loudly in Luis's ear. "Well," he says. "Coulda been worse."

"Yeah," Luis says. "I'm going to go. Bye."

"Adios, mate," Stevie says. He doesn't sound too disappointed, so Luis thinks, maybe it isn't so bad.

When Luis pulls into his driveway, his phone buzzes. It's a text from Diego. _so you're trying to be zidane and maradona all in one?_ it says.

Luis turns off his phone and backs out of the driveway.

It wasn't like he was the only one involved. There were at least three other players there- Carra yelling incomprehensibly on his left, someone else behind him, trying to grab his waist and pull him back.

He remembers letting go of the sky blue shoulders and thinking about walking away. He remembers thinking that he could let his teammates pull him back and restart the game with three minutes on the clock and it would be a game like no other.

But then he remembers the sound of the ball hitting the post once, twice, thrice, ringing in his ears, and he glances up and sees the score, 2-1 and they're the ones who are down, and he remembers thinking, _I want._

The press conference goes like this.

REPORTER: Luis, you got quite angry on the pitch tonight. (Pause.) What provoked your actions?

SUAREZ (in Spanish): I became frustrated. It happens to all players at points and today was my turn. (Short pause.) I have apologized already and I regret my actions.

REPORTER: You're suspended for three matches, is that right?

SUAREZ: Yes.

REPORTER: Will you be traveling home, then?

SUAREZ: No. This is not a vacation. I will be at training with the team and I will attend the matches and watch from the stands. Of course I never want to watch a match I could be playing in but it will be a great experience to be a part of the crowd at Anfield, the atmosphere is amazing.

REPORTER: You were compared to Maradona at the summer's World Cup for your handball against Ghana, and now the Zidane comments seem to be floating in. Do you have any response to that?

SUAREZ: Maradona and Zidane are both great players, that's all I have to say.

Raul answers the door wearing a blue and white striped t-shirt and a pair of gray sweatpants. "Hey," he says, opening the door wider when he sees it's Luis.

"Hey," Luis echoes. "What's up."

"You tell me, hombre," Raul says, but he's smiling a little bit. He steps back into the foyer, so Luis follows. The door clicks shut behind him.

"How are you?" Luis asks, edging around the inevitable.

"Oh, I'm fine," Raul shrugs.

They go into the living room. Luis perches on his usual armchair. Raul stretches himself out on the couch. His shirt is too short, so it rides up when he crosses his arms behind his head. Luis focuses on how sharp his hipbones are.

"You know you didn't have to," Raul tells him after a minute.

Luis looks at him and bites his lip. "Yeah," he says. "But also I did."

Raul frowns.

"Not for you," Luis says. He waves his hands around for a second. "I wasn't trying to defend you or anything. Well, at first. Maybe." Raul snorts. "But for the team."

"You get yourself red-carded and suspended when there's three minutes left on the clock and you say it's for the team?" Raul's eyebrows are raised, but his lips twitch up at the corners.

"Shut up, I'm just dedicated," Luis tells him.

"I know you are," Raul says. "Hey, come here."

Luis moves to sit on the couch, his back pressing against Raul's side. "So you have the Hand of God," Raul says, brushing his fingers over the back of Luis's hand. "What do we call your head?"

"My head is perfect," Luis says. "It doesn't need a nickname."

"They'll work one into your song anyway," Raul shrugs. Luis wiggles his fingers until Raul's palm is flat against the back of his hand and his fingers fit into the spaces between Luis's.

There was never a conscious decision to headbutt. There was the idea that he had to do something, and there was everyone yelling and screaming and whistling, and the ref was on his way over, and then all of a sudden the top of Luis's head rammed itself against the sky blue chest and everything got even louder.

The red card didn't matter, because all Luis could see was red.

 _You'll never walk alone_ , they said.  



End file.
